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Praise for the Novels of
Diana Pharaoh Francis
Path of Blood
“Excellent characterizations, intriguing political maneuvering, and some fascinating battle scenes, both
mundane and magical, make this sword and sorcery tale a must-read for fans of Katherine Kurtz’s
Deryni Chronicles.”
—Midwest Book Reivew
“A glorious conclusion…many surprises and plot twists…some so delightfully shocking and incredible
that they will stun the reader as they are cleverly worked into the book…. This is just part of the charm
of Path of Blood, an entertaining and magical tale written by great world-builder Diana Pharaoh Francis.”
—SFRevu
Path of Honor
“A stubborn, likable heroine.”
—Kristen Britain, bestselling author of First Rider’s Call
“Well plotted and exhibiting superior characterization, [Path of Honor is definitely a worthy sequel.”
—Booklist
Path of Fate
“Plausible, engrossing characters, a well-designed world, and a well-realized plot.”
—Booklist
“I thoroughly enjoyed Path of Fate by the talented Diana Pharaoh Francis and look forward to more of
the adventures of Reisil and her goshawk, Saljane.”
—Kristen Britain
“This is an entertaining book—at times compelling—from one of fantasy’s promising new voices.”
—David B. Coe, award-winning author of Seeds of Betrayal
“In this delightful debut, Diana Pharaoh Francis caught me with a compelling story, intrigued me with the
magic of her ahalad-kaaslane, and swept me away with her masterful feel for the natural world.”
—Carol Berg, author of Flesh and Spirit
Other Novels
by Diana Pharaoh Francis
Path of Blood
Path of Honor
Path of Fate
 
THE CIPHER
A NOVEL OF CROSSPOINTE
Diana Pharaoh Francis
ROC
Published by New American Library, a division of
Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street,
New York, New York 10014, USA Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700,
Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.) Penguin Books Ltd.,
80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England Penguin Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a
division of Penguin Books Ltd.) Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell,
Victoria 3124, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty. Ltd.) Penguin Books India Pvt. Ltd.,
11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi-110 017, India Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo
Drive, Rosedale, North Shore 0632, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.)Penguin
Books (South Africa) (Pty.) Ltd., 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa
Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices:
80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
First published by Roc, an imprint of New American Library,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
ISBN: 1-4295-5596-3
Copyright © Diana Pharaoh Francis, 2007
All rights reserved
REG
IST
ERE
D
TRA
DE
MA
RK
—M
AR
CA
REG
IST
RA
DA
Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be
reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means
(electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of
both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
 
PUBLISHER’S NOTE
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s
imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business
establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or
third-party Web sites or their content.
The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the
permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic
editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support
of the author’s rights is appreciated.
For Tony, always and forever
Contents
Acknowledgments
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
 
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
About the Author
Acknowledgments
I’ve had some of the best fun in my life writing this book, and there were a lot of people who helped me.
In particular, Alex Zecha, James Fraylor, the crew of the Lady Washington, Megan Glasscock, my
friends at the Roundtable, and Lucienne Diver. And at Roc, my amazing editor, Liz Scheier, and copy
editor extraordinaire, Michele Alpern, and all of those whom I’ve not met, but helped me make this a
book and get it out to readers.
Additionally, there are places in life you cannot go and things you cannot do without the support of
others. I couldn’t be a writer—I couldn’t be sane—if it weren’t for Tony, Quentin, Sydney, my parents
and the rest of my (lunatic) family, Megan, Kenna, Christy, and many friends who I know in person and
in cyberspace. And most importantly, I couldn’t do this if readers like you didn’t pick up my books and
pass them around.
I know readers will want maps, glossaries, and other fun information about the ongoing tales of
Crosspointe. Come visit my Web site at www.dianapfrancis.com for all that and more.
Thank you to all, and I hope you enjoy.
Chapter 1
There were some days that deserved to be drowned at birth and everyone sent back to bed with a hot
brandy, a box of chocolates, and a warm, energetic companion. Today was without question one of
those days.
 
The cutter lurched over the chop, shimmying from side to side in a stomach-twisting quadrille. Rain
pebbled the deck and sails. Water sheeted across the bow and swirled around Lucy’s feet, too great a
flood for the scuppers to handle. Her socks were soaked and she could hardly feel her toes. She ought
to have had her boots majicked against the weather like her cloak. But it was a bit more majick than she
could take.
Cold eeled deep inside Lucy. Her insides quaked with the penetrating chill and her muscles clenched
against it. She tightened her arms around her stomach, wishing she’d eaten a better breakfast and thinking
longingly of her forgotten flask of tea.
A few minutes later she heard a shouted “Heave to!” Sailors scrambled up the shrouds to reef the handful
of bellied sails. The men at the poles dug sharply into the churning water as the cutter heeled to
starboard.
“Sorry, ma’am! Weather’s too heavy. Can’t take you all the way in to shore. We’d be swamped or
bilged. Gotta put you ashore on the arm.”
The mate didn’t wait for her response, which was just as well. She ground out a string of epithets. She
had plenty in store. She’d grown up on the docks among people who lived too close to the edge of life to
be bothered with hoity-toity manners. Or any manners at all. She rubbed her cold fingers over her cheeks
and pressed them against her mouth to stop the torrent. She was on duty. She had the reputation of the
customs office to think about. Not to mention her own. She didn’t need witnesses to her fears. Which
were entirely irrational. But knowing that did not settle her stomach or loosen the tension that shook her
hands.
The deck dropped and the cutter yawed sickeningly to the side. Lucy gasped and grappled a bench for
balance, her feet sliding. The sailors shouted and clung desperately to the rigging. The boat rolled to the
other side. She sucked in a harsh breath, bracing against the wall, her legs spread wide. The wash of
black waves sounded hungry and loud above the rush of the wind. Clamping down on the whimpers
crowding her throat, she bit her lips together so that she tasted blood. She jeered silently at herself,
hoping everybody was too busy to notice.
She straightened with an effort, clinging to the back of the bench. The cutter righted itself again and
continued its lurching way. Lucy’s gaze flicked to the strand of wards glimmering like green pearls
beyond the mouth of the harbor. The Pale. Their glow didn’t quiet her nausea. Just because in four
hundred years the fence of tide and storm wards had never failed to keep sylveth out of the harbor, it
didn’t mean that today couldn’t be different. And Lucy didn’t want to be in the water when it happened.
Not that the cutter offered safety against sylveth. Nothing did.
She shivered and her throat jerked as she swallowed. She’d seen for herself what raw sylveth could do.
She closed her eyes against the memory. But she couldn’t halt it any more than she could stop the storm.
The day had been fine, the black sands sparkling in the sunlight, the air redolent with spring. Ten-year-old
Lucy and her family were on a picnic during one of their few summer retreats. Robert had been teasing
her again. She stalked off, leaving all three of her brothers in peals of laughter. She didn’t know how far
she walked. She only remembered coming around a jut and stumbling over something soft and sticky.
She had stared at it for long moments, unable to decipher what it was she was looking at. Then a hollow
sound slowly filled her ears. Grains trickled past as she stood, unable to tear herself away, recognition
creeping over her with insect feet.
It was sylveth spawn, born of majick. Whether it had originally been human or animal or something else
entirely, there was no way to tell.
 

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